


Rodney Can't Turn Off his Brain

by jenna_thorn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Written as a birthday present for Cinco May 2006</p></blockquote>





	Rodney Can't Turn Off his Brain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cinco](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinco/gifts).



Rodney can't turn off his brain. It's never really been a problem in the past because his relationships have tended to be more in his own mind than in physical space, like the six month wooing that ended in his stammered congratulations on her upcoming nuptials. Six months, he'd thought they'd been dating, and she'd thought they were randomly meeting at the coffee shop and he'd planned to bring her flowers in February but then he'd run late and if he had would it have made any difference? Probably not. She'd still be married to the guy in the Biology department and he'd still be here, on his knees, multitasking, cataloguing every twitch John makes above him and cross referencing what he is doing with his lips, his tongue, his hands that might be responsible while simultaneously processing that the floor under his knees has temperature variances, cool to warm. Possibly a conductive heat system running through these rooms. He'll have to mark out the pattern to see whether they connect to the halls or just to other open spaces and he starts to shuffle leftward to trace with his right knee the warm spot and above him, John's head falls against the wall with an audible thunk and Rodney is captured by calloused hands, still streaked with off-world dirt and smelling of cordite and since when could he name the smell of cordite, taste the bitterness of it along with John, a Pavlovian link between gunfire and hasty sex in unused storerooms? MG8-something and he can only remember the eight because the baskets of food they'd brought back were all entirely inedible, no eating at all, at least for him, although the baskets themselves had been woven of the conductive alloy that he'd not been able to scrounge nearly as much as he needed and where was it being squirreled away to, anyway? He'd fought for those baskets, bled for those baskets and okay, maybe it was just a scratch, but the ringing in his ears had taken hours to fade, even longer than his jaw had taken to stop aching from the unaccustomed stretch when John had grabbed him and thrown him against the wall and somehow they'd gone from sniping to kissing to Rodney's self-taught crash course of the other side of oral sex which included not only how figuring out how to swallow and what to do about teeth but also how not to say a single word of complaint when the other guy has to figure out both, too. Clearly time is not so much a constant even without lightspeed factoring into the equation because last time when it had been him leaning against the wall and John on his knees, it was a blur and a flash and they'd almost been caught; what had felt like two seconds between the abrasion of his still buttoned waistband being dragged over his ass and the rattle of the door interrupting his post-orgasmic haze was in fact almost twelve minutes which wouldn't have been a problem but Beckett had been looking for them and …

Then John makes a noise, more a whimper than a sigh, and nothing else in the world, in this galaxy, takes more of his concentration than not gagging and not drooling and then the backwards ruffle as John smooshes all Rodney's hair up through the middle.

Perhaps that's why John's hair is always … nah, best not to think of it, really.

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday present for Cinco May 2006


End file.
